


Love Is a Letter Sent a Thousand Times

by Valerin Berenghar (Valerin)



Series: Regarding Love [1]
Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:35:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valerin/pseuds/Valerin%20Berenghar
Summary: The Fey army has conquered Pendragon castle, but tomorrow bears the promise of war. Two of Arthur’s gallant knights find each other in the last hour of peace.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Series: Regarding Love [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901167
Comments: 13
Kudos: 99





	Love Is a Letter Sent a Thousand Times

Pym had told him to be careful, over and over again. To remember that Lancelot’s heart and soul weren’t his to give and that they probably never would be. Even a blind man could see that the Paladins had turned him inside out and screwed his head on wrong; that they’d beaten and flogged and burned until it was only their truth left. She’d said that gentle words couldn’t undo what’d been etched in with violence; that it wasn’t about fixing a broken seam or two when the whole fabric was tattered and see-through.

His heart harbored the selfish belief that she was wrong, that she was a bit too generous with the cotton wrapping she looped everyone in, but a more rational part of him recognized it for what it was. Through hardship, loss and battle they’d grown into the word of  brothers like weeds in a garden and while it’d been a hard slog at first, there wasn’t anyone he would rather have fighting by his side. 

The comfort of enjoying blessed silence had come first – hours where they could just be together without the need for words. Then there’d been the jokes, the stupid ones that were reserved for when it was just the two them and where they could laugh until their stomachs hurt. In time, they’d reached a point where they could share one glance that gave him a fairly good idea of what was going on inside Lancelot’s mind.

He’d recognized the defeat in Lancelot's eyes when Squirrel had fussed over how the porridge was bland _again_ , just like every other morning for a week straight. He’d seen the way Lancelot had lit up when Arthur had maintained his clumsy spree of walking into inanimate objects while talking to Guinevere. He’d seen Lancelot’s eyes glaze over when a Paladin prisoner had mentioned Father Carden’s death.

For as much as it’d hurt to see that, it’d become a testament to how far they’d come – that they’d come to share the highs and the lows. In the year that’d gone by since Squirrel had strolled into camp with the infamous monk in tow, everything had changed. At first, Gawain had waited for the change – the snap, the transformation to the man he’d met so many times on the battlefield. He’d waited for the monster to emerge, but nothing had happened.

Lancelot had offered snippets, bits and pieces of his past. Enough to puzzle together the realization that he wasn’t a monster by choice. That he’d been a glorified bloodhound at best to the Church where stay, track, and bite seemed to be the most used commands. The Fey could forgive, but they would never forget; and for as much as Gawain hated the idea that Lancelot would always be on the outside looking in, he knew that he couldn’t ask any of them to lower their guards.

It wasn’t just with the rest of the Fey that Lancelot kept his guard up. There was still something—a divide between them. An invisible barrier that always kept them at an arm’s length and perhaps that was where Pym’s words rang true. That his conditioning ran too deep to ever let anyone come close.

The domed ceiling carried the sound of his footsteps high. Not even half the torches around the throne room were lit, layering the grand hall in shadows. Beyond the tall window glass that faced the dried-out lake, the sky was an angry bruise. The candelabrum that sat on the long table created an almost perfect circle of light, only disturbed by Lancelot’s presence.

“Finding any good prayers?”

Lancelot slowly lifted his gaze from the tome that was spread wide before him, eyes gleaming in the flickering light. There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth as he shook his head softly in reply.

“Shame,” Gawain said with a crooked smile as he sank down on the bench next to Lancelot. The ache in his knees flared in relief and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down. They’d worked day and night to fortify the castle, to dig trenches on the fields beyond the moat and arm every able-bodied man, woman, and child.

Lancelot hummed as his focus settled on the tome again, half-lidded eyes glancing down at the spread below. The pages were yellowed and old, the ink greying and the illustration of a dark, arched gate was bubbled and weathered. Wherever that gate led to, it didn’t look like somewhere one wanted to be.

“Is everything ready?” Lancelot asked as he stared down at the page, voice low enough that not even the echo whispered it again.

Gawain scrubbed a hand over his face as if that would take the fatigue away. He let out a deep sigh before he bobbed his head. “Aye.”

He watched how Lancelot pursed his lips, how the muscle flickered once right by the hinges of his jaw. The silence quickly stretched itself unfamiliar between them, tense and uncomfortable and _screaming_ that something was wrong. Gawain could feel it in his bones, in the way his heart sped up.

“Are you alright?” he asked, a little breathless – ignoring the way it felt like a stupid thing to ask. The last scout report had placed the Ice King’s army a day’s march from the castle and unless they stumbled over their own feet, they would go to war tomorrow. One scout had said that the army had looked like a sea of blue moving over the fields, that it had been impossible to count them all, and that made his stomach churn. 

When Lancelot looked up at him, it felt as if he was stared into his soul. “Are you?”

A long time ago, someone had once told Gawain that the hottest fires burn blue. In moments like this, when the candlelight scared the darkness away from Lancelot’s eyes and turned them into that startling shade of blue, it was all he ever thought about. For someone who was as reserved as Lancelot, it was all about the eyes and right now, they were ablaze for a reason he couldn’t decipher. It was a fire he hadn’t seen before and that sent the panic unfurling within him, mind desperately grabbing for the first rational reason to what could be wrong.

“Do you think Arthur made a mistake by dragging us here?” Gawain asked, words bearing more edge than intended.

Lancelot narrowed his eyes, head coming to tilt slightly to the side. “No,” he said with eerie ease.

“Then what is it?”

Lancelot broke away first, gaze resting on that tome again and for a long, suffocating moment, Gawain thought that would be the end. Just like how it’d always been in the beginning when their conversations had fizzled out after the third sentence, but if the year had taught him anything, it was that Lancelot picked his words carefully and that took time. In the beginning, Gawain had wondered if he’d always been like that, or if that had come later, perhaps from that battle Squirrel had spoken hushed about.

Gawain watched with bated breath as Lancelot idly flipped the page in the tome. The skin over his knuckles was desert dry and cracking, and there was dirt under his nails, no doubt from digging trenches all day. Ever since the beginning, he’d been a shadow during their strategy briefings, a presence in the room but never anything else. Not even when Gawain had asked in private had he muttered anything that could even give the smallest hint at where his head was at, and it was impossible to tell if he was devoid of all opinions, or just fiercely loyal to the cause.

“Are you afraid?” Lancelot asked after a long while of nothing, voice hollow and low, and he finally stopped turning the pages. “Of what’s to come.”

Gawain deflated with a sigh, hand coming up to comb back his hair. “We only have to hold down the castle until nightfall,” he said, repeating the words he’d chanted the past couple of weeks ever since Arthur had made the call that they’d stand their ground at the castle.

There was the slightest curve to Lancelot’s lips, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “That’s a long time.”

The world fell quiet. It was the way he said it—the pitiful tone that went hand in hand with that sorrowful smile and it wrung Gawain’s heart into a thousand pieces as he realized that this was a first. The first time he’d said anything about the war, about their battle preparations and that brought back all the tension in his body, shoulders squaring as he sat straighter. His heart thundered in his chest, obliviating any stray thoughts and magnifying the roar in his ears.

“It’s only until nightfall,” he said again, stronger this time, “we can hold them off until the Red Spear returns with reinforcements.”

“Cumber’s army will be here by morning,” Lancelot said, almost as if he was sorry for even mentioning it.

And the Paladins at noon,  Gawain thought and all at once, he realized that Lancelot wasn’t talking about tomorrow in that sense. The revelation tore something in him, unearthing a deep sense of finality that made it hard to breathe.

They would win this. He hadn’t even wanted to entertain a scenario where they didn’t because, despite everything, they had a fair shot – Arthur thought so, the Red Spear thought so and if Nimue was here, Gawain was convinced she’d believe in their plan as well. Even though they may be outnumbered, they’d done the groundwork, prepared the castle, and trained as many as they could in the weeks that’d passed ever since it’d become clear that they couldn’t hide anymore. 

Although he realized with a sinking heart that all that wasn’t a guarantee that they would both live to see the moon and stars again. They weren’t immortal and all it took was one arrow, one cut and then it was over. He hated that thought and the more he tried to push it away, the more intrusive it became. The thought that Lancelot would be left behind – still an outcast among the Fey – burned a hole through his soul, just like the thought that he could be someone they would count on the battlefield after the dust had settled.

“You don’t have to fight,” he echoed, “you can still leave, the road leading north is  still— ”

“—it’s not that.”

Gawain shifted closer on the bench—close enough that their knees touched beneath the table, torsos mirrored against each other. His hand came up to rest upon Lancelot’s before he said, “Then tell me what it is.”

There was that silence again – heavy, unfamiliar, and absolutely terrifying. He watched how Lancelot glanced down to their hands and felt that buzz beneath the skin as he slowly shifted his hand so that their calloused palms rubbed together, cold fingers wrapping tight. It was still a gentle touch, but that didn’t stop it from feeling as if he was crumbling beneath it; heart aching by each violent beat.

Lancelot looked at him, face unreadable but his eyes—his eyes gleamed in the flickering light. “Do you think there’s a life after this?”

Gawain let out a sharp breath. “I do.”

“Then come and find me.”

It was a plea; one that silenced the world. Lancelot smiled that woeful smile and it was impossible to _not_ reach out. He planted a hand on Lancelot’s neck, gently bringing their foreheads together and for a heart-wrenching moment, he listened as Lancelot sucked in a shaky breath.

“I’ll find you after the battle first,” he promised. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated. If this story intrigued you, subscribe to the series to get a notification when the next part is out.  
>   
> And oh! We have a cozy Discord server were all the Lancewain stans hang out, feel free to come and join, everyone is welcome! The link is right [here](https://discord.gg/QvFncr9).


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